Susanna GREGORY - The Lost Abbot

‘You cannot say you do not like it. We have only just arrived.’

Cynric gave him a meaningful look, and clutched one of the amulets he wore around his neck. ‘It is a feeling, boy, and I have learned not to ignore those. I sense wickedness here, and there will be evil spirits involved. You can be sure of that.’

There had been a time when Bartholomew would have tried to convince the book-bearer that such a notion was ridiculous, but Cynric had grown more superstitious and opinionated with age, and the physician now knew better than to try.

‘Brother Michael’s canonisation means that Bishop Gynewell has a hold over him,’ Cynric went on sourly. ‘He should have held out for one in Ely instead, because then we would not have been sent here to hunt for mysteriously vanished Abbots.’

‘Michael is a long way from sainthood yet,’ said Bartholomew, although he could see from Cynric’s glare that the book-bearer did not want a lecture on ecclesiastical terminology.

‘Once the Bishop named him as Commissioner, he had no choice but to come to Peterborough,’ Cynric grumbled on. ‘But that should not have meant that half of Michaelhouse is forced to travel with him. It is unfair.’

Bartholomew made no reply. He had been regaled with Cynric’s displeasure over the venture ever since they had left, and he was tired of discussing it.

‘I understand why most of us are here,’ the book-bearer continued. ‘Brother Michael was ordered to come by the Bishop; you and Father William had to escape awkward situations; Clippesby could not be left with mean old Thelnetham; and I am here to look after you. But what about the Master? I do not believe he is here to see old friends.’

As it happened, Cynric was right to be suspicious of Langelee’s motives. Bartholomew was not the only one who disobeyed the University’s strictures against women, and the Master’s latest conquest was the Deputy Sheriff’s wife. The man had discovered the affair the same day that William had accused him of dishonesty, and rather than risk having war declared on Michaelhouse, Langelee had opted for a tactical withdrawal. Bartholomew was the only Fellow entrusted with this information, on the grounds that Langelee did not think the others – all clerics in holy orders – would understand.

‘He does have a friend here,’ Bartholomew replied, although Langelee had confessed that he had only met Master Spalling once, and the expansive invitation to ‘visit any time’ had been issued after a night of heavy drinking. In truth, Langelee did not know whether Spalling would remember him, let alone agree to a house guest.

‘Well, I am glad he came,’ conceded Cynric, albeit reluctantly. ‘You and I could not have beaten off those robbers alone – we would have been slaughtered.’

‘Yes,’ said Bartholomew, wincing when he recalled the delight with which the Master had greeted the opportunity to hone his martial skills. Bartholomew’s own talents in that direction were modest, as befitted a man whose profession was healing. Bad timing had put him in Poitiers when a small force led by the Prince of Wales had encountered the French army – which had taught him how to hold his own; but he disliked fighting and avoided it when he could.

‘Do you think we will survive the return journey?’ asked Cynric uneasily. ‘Or shall we be doomed to spend the rest of our lives in this infernal place? My wife will not like that.’

‘Neither will my students,’ said Bartholomew.

‘You had better dismount, Matt,’ called Michael, as scattered houses gave way to proper streets. ‘We do not want anyone trampled. The resulting fuss might make us late for dinner.’

With Bartholomew, horses sensed who was master and immediately exercised their ascendancy by bucking, prancing or heading off to enjoy the grass. The docile nag he had taken from College had been shot during an ambush, leaving him with a fierce stallion that had a tendency to bolt. He did as Michael suggested and passed him the reins, feeling that the beast needed to be in responsible hands if there were people about.

It was not long before their precautions paid off. The road, which had been wide, narrowed abruptly, and an elderly man stepped in front of them. The stallion reared in shock, and even Michael’s superior abilities were tested as he struggled to control it. Bartholomew would have stood no chance, and blood would certainly have been spilled.

‘You are not allowed to bring dangerous animals in here,’ screeched the man, cringing away as hoofs flailed. He was an ancient specimen, with bandy legs, no teeth and wispy grey hair; he wore the robes of a Benedictine lay brother. ‘It is forbidden.’

‘I imagine it is forbidden to race out in front of travellers and frighten their mounts, too,’ retorted Michael.

‘Are you the Bishop’s Commissioner?’ asked the old man, peering up at him.

‘Yes, he is,’ said William before the monk could reply for himself. ‘And so are we.’

‘What, all of you?’ asked the old man, startled. He was not the only one to be surprised: it was also news to Michael, Langelee, Clippesby, Bartholomew and Cynric. ‘Why so many?’

‘Because the Bishop thought Brother Michael might need us,’ replied William loftily.

‘I see,’ said the old man with a philosophical shrug, as if the workings of a prelate’s mind were beyond his ken. ‘We expected you ages ago because the Bishop asked you to come at once, but you have taken weeks. Why? Do you not consider our predicament pressing?’

‘And who are you, pray?’ asked Michael coolly.

‘Roger Botilbrig, bedesman of St Leonard’s Hospital. That means I have served the abbey all my life – I was their best brewer – and I now live in retirement at abbey expense.’

‘I know what a bedesman is,’ said Michael, disliking the assumption that he was a fool.

Botilbrig went on as if the monk had not spoken. ‘My duties are mostly praying for the hospital’s founders, but that is a bit tedious, so I offered to wait for you instead, to escort you to the abbey. Of course, I did not expect to be kept hanging around this long.’

‘My apologies,’ said Michael dryly. ‘However, our journey has been fraught with–’

‘Apology accepted.’ Botilbrig gave a sudden toothless grin. ‘Bishop Gynewell told us to expect a very large monk, and he was not exaggerating. You are a princely specimen.’

William sniggered, Langelee and Cynric smothered smiles, and Bartholomew waited for an explosion. Clippesby began murmuring to the wasp that had landed on his sleeve.

‘I am not fat,’ declared Michael tightly. ‘I have big bones. Matt here will confirm it, because he is my personal physician.’

Bartholomew blinked, astonished to learn that he had been awarded such a title.

‘A physician?’ asked Botilbrig, brightening. ‘Good! We do not have one of our own any more, not since Master Pyk disappeared at the same time as Abbot Robert. Most of us have ailments that need tending, so it is thoughtful of you to bring us one. I have a sore–’

‘He will be helping me ,’ interrupted Michael. ‘He will not have time for patients. However, the fact that more than one man is adrift is news to us. Gynewell said it was just the Abbot.’

‘The Abbot and Pyk,’ stated Botilbrig. ‘They disappeared a month ago, on St Swithin’s Day, and have not been seen since. It will not be easy to find them after all this time, but the Bishop says you are good at solving mysteries, so we are all expecting a speedy solution.’

‘So no pressure then,’ murmured Langelee to Michael.

Botilbrig hobbled along the road, gabbling non-stop as he pointed out features of interest. The physician was the only one who listened. William had turned resentful again, claiming that he should be persecuting heretics in Cambridge, not sent to distant outposts just because he had made a few perfectly justifiable remarks about a devious official. Cynric was nodding agreement; Langelee was trying to recall where Spalling had said he lived; Michael was reflecting unhappily on the task he had been set; and Clippesby had been stung by the wasp.